Battle Road Page 3

  On the wall behind the desk, Goodman placed his right hand on the identification display to the office safe. A series of red laser lights scrolled down across the screen reading his hand print. A half a second later the identification display turned green allowing him to proceed to enter the numeric code on the keypad to the safe.

  With the safe opened, Goodman placed the briefcase inside, then pulled out a square metal lock box. The box was old, the lock long since broken and unused. He opened and surveyed it's contents. Nodding his head, he placed the box back inside, closed the safe, and checked to make sure it was locked. This was his daily ritual, each and every day. Then he double checked the safe was locked.

  Goodman grabbed a jacket hanging from the coat hook next to the office door and headed out. He checked that the metal door was locked behind him and quickly headed up the stairs. His smile returned.

  The girls rode their bikes out of their driveway and down the quiet neighborhood street as their father ran to keep up. The Minute Man trail was only a block away, so Goodman didn't have far to jog. Though, at his age he knew he needed all the exercise he could get.

  Once on the bike trail, the girls circled back and forth or side to side, really just messing around. Being on the bikes and moving was all that counted. “Hey dad, watch this,” Emily yelled as she rode around with one hand in the air. Jennifer rode her tricycle nearby, keeping an eye on her sister's antics. The girls were having the time of their lives, as they seemed to do every time they got the chance to ride their bikes and see their dad.

  It was getting late in the afternoon and growing darker. Rain clouds were moving in. Goodman stood watching the kids riding in circles on the bike path. These moments were his solace from the realities of the world. Possibly the only thing that kept him going.

  Mike Goodman was forty eight years old. One of the few high ranking African-American Agents with the Department of Homeland Security. He held the rank of Major, though that was more of a ceremonial title since nobody any longer paid attention to military style ranks. Those were leftovers from the early days of DHS.

  Goodman answered his nations call to duty to fight in the War On Terror by joining the Marines at age eighteen. He served with a distinguished record, earning two Purple Hearts in Operation Iranian Freedom, promoted to sergeant in the first PAC-Rim war, and earning a Silver Star in Central Africa, and finally achieving a battlefield commission as a second lieutenant during the Turkestan engagement

  It was military intelligence that Goodman discovered was his true calling, rising to the rank of Major by the end of his second tour of duty in Operation Venezuelan Freedom. He returned to America as a hero to continue to fight the War On Terror At Home with Homeland Security.

  Sitting down to dinner that evening at quarter past five was a little earlier than usual. Suzanne had baked a macaroni casserole and served it with a garden salad. Not that the kids or Goodman ever enjoyed eating salad.

  After Goodman finished saying grace, Suzanne began her usual dinner conversation, “How was work today dear?” Trying not give away state secrets, Goodman typically responded only with generalities that would make the news the following day. Not that his wife was a security threat. But he didn't want to take any chances of being bugged. He knew the vibrations of his words could easily be picked up by lasers beamed at any of the dinning room windows. He used this technology every day on ordinary Americans. Someone could just as easily do it to him.

  “We caught another domestic terrorist this morning. A college girl. She was caught spreading treason against the government in her Twitter messages to a group of students.” Goodman ate a spoonful of the baked macaroni. It was still too hot. He swallowed it down fast and took a swig of the beer in front of him. “It wasn't tough catching her considering she was sending out unencrypted transmissions. These younger terrorists I guess are just too stupid to know we monitor all communications. Makes my life easy.” Goodman poked at his salad with his fork before finishing his story. “By this afternoon we had the Federal Court in Boston classify her as an enemy combatant. She was on a military flight to one of our prisons before I left the office. She won't be committing any more acts of terror ever again.”

  “That's great news, Honey. Hopefully, she'll discover the Lord Jesus Christ with the prison education programs,” Suzanne said as she took a paper napkin to wipe up some food Jennifer spilled on the table.

  Midway though supper, Suzanne brought up her days news. “Oh, Emily is going to have to sleep in Jennifer's room again tonight. The heating system isn't getting any heat into her room. I called for service but they couldn't get here today. They said they'll be here first thing in the morning.”

  Goodman's face tensed up, his right hand turning into a fist. “That god damn heating system hasn't worked right since we bought it. I'm going to speak with those thieving sons of bitches about getting a warranty replacement.” Suzanne hushed him, “Your language Mike, not in front of the children.”

  Goodman forced a smile. “I'm sorry girls.” It was important for him to raise his children well. He was determined never to act in front of his family like his own drunken, sadistic father did every night of his own childhood.

  The girls slowly ate their baked macaroni. Blowing on each bite to cool it down, while swinging their heads back and forth at each parent as they spoke.

  FIVE

  The rain came down in buckets that Wednesday night. At ten minutes past six Jack Brooks stepped out onto the courtyard of his condominium building in the Brighton section of Boston. Known as Brooksie by his close friends, he wore a tan brown leather overcoat and a full brim Texas style hat to try to stay dry. Brooks stood in the courtyard looking up at the lights shimmering on the falling rain drops. He inserted the ear buds from his digital media player into each ear. “Hope it doesn't any get worse than this,” he mumbled to himself while selecting some jazz music from Dexter Gordon. While the music started playing, he pulled his hat down low, tugged at the lapel of his overcoat to help keep the rain out, and headed out into the rainswept darkened street.

  Brooks was Dylan Frasers' best friend. A lawyer by profession, Brooks worked for one of the oldest and most prestigious law firms downtown. He specialized in corporate law, an area of the law he didn't particularly like and knew he was never going to make Partner. Though, until he could figure out what kind of career he wanted, the job paid the bills.

  At the end of his street, Brooks turned right, walking down Commonwealth Avenue towards Allston Village. He was meeting his female friend, Joanne, at the Karma Club for dinner. She was his only female friend since there was no way he was ever going to get her into bed. Joanne Neely was a lesbian, and the two shared their common bond of commiserating about their unsuccessful relationships with women. When the two got together, Brooks would describe how he invariably screwed up his relationships with women one or way or the other. More often than not by sleeping with any young beauty that he'd meet. Joanne on the other hand would usually bring up the fact that she always sought unattainable women. Currently, she was having an affair with an older married Christian woman that would never leave her family.

  Brooks stopped and leaned against the side of a building to get out of the rain. He was in no particular hurry since Joanne wasn't going to be there at the time they agreed. He hadn't known her for that long, but he knew her well enough to know that she was never on time for anything. Getting out of the house for a drink, even if it was by himself, was really all he had on his mind.

  Leaning against the wall, he looked both ways up and down the sidewalk. A couple of people were out, but with the rain pouring down as it was, he knew no one would notice a thing. He pulled out of his coat pocket a heavily stained electric vaporizer. It had a half a hit remaining of high grade marijuana, a new strain called 'Kamikaze' he purchased at the corner coffee shop. He pressed the 'ON' button, waited for the green LED, and took a big hit. He held the smoke in his lungs for as long as he could, then exhaled. The stream of smoke
jetted out into the dark rainy sky. He pushed himself off against the side of the building and rolled his head. “Yeah! Now that's some wicked shit,” he said aloud. No one was within earshot. He looked around again, as if trying to get his bearings on which way to go. He continued in the direction he had been walking previously. His head down trying to keep the rain away from his face.

  Having made his way a few blocks on Comm Ave, Brooks raised his head to notice that on the other side of the street about a block and a half down a police raid was going on. He picked up his pace a bit to see what was happening. Approaching the scene, the rain had lightened up enough for him to see that five or six State Police cars with their lights flashing had blocked the traffic for both directions on Commonwealth Avenue. The Green line MBTA trolleys were stopped dead in their tracks. Homeland Security armored assault vehicles were lined up in front of a building. The magnetized plasma of hover drones crackled overhead as they roamed back and forth in the night sky.

  The few people who where outdoors that evening were quickly walking away from the scene. Brooks did a double take. No, they were more than walking fast. They were fleeing the area. As he got closer, he noticed he was the lone figure still making his way towards the commotion. A sense or urgency surged within him. He didn't want to miss anything. What could this be?, he thought while he hurried his pace. Reaching the blocked off area, he recognized the building immediately. It was the old Phi Beta Kappa fraternity. Homeland Security troops were removing the occupants and lining them up in front of the armored vehicles.

  “Those boys know how to party,” he said aloud, thinking back to all the drunken times he had spent there as a student. A hover drone flew directly overhead, the noise snapping him back to the reality at hand. National Guard soldiers with M4 assault rifles lined the sidewalk directly in front of him. Slowly it began to dawn on him that this was more than a police raid on a bunch of frat boys drinking beer or underage smoking of the latest designer cannabis. Something serious was up, he thought.

  “Move along,” ordered a soldier walking towards Brooks. The soldier carried his rifle across his chest in the standard position. “What's going on?” Brooks yelled through the drizzle, his eyes squinted the way they usually do when he's stoned. Brooks pulled his leather cap up higher on his head to see, then removed the earplugs to his digital music player. “Move along, now! That's an order,” the soldier yelled, while drawing nearer and swinging his weapon outward though facing down towards the ground. “Ahhhh, yes sir.” Brooks wasn't about to argue with a man holding an M4. The sidewalk was blocked so Brooks had to turn around and walk back a few yards for the nearby side street. He took his time walking. Keeping an eye on the events across the street. The soldier followed a few yards behind.

  Across the street, the Homeland Security soldiers appeared to be finished rounding up the students. Securing them in an area in front of the assault vehicles. Most of the students were standing in the rain with nothing but jeans and tee shirts. Many wearing no shoes. “What the hell is going on,” Brooks muttered under his breath.

  A student in a bright yellow tee shirt suddenly broke from the roundup and started running. Soldiers could be heard shouting for the young man to halt. The student kept running. Brooks stopped and turned to watch. Then, what sounded like rapid taps from a hammer, muzzle flashes from three maybe four automatic rifles burst out. With the light cast by a nearby street lamp, Brooks could see the young mans body jerking in spasms, hit by multiple bullets, before crashing to the ground. Brooks jumped back instinctively, shouting out in the rain, “Fuck me!”

  Within seconds, the corralled students, in one massive movement rushed the soldiers. Screams and chaos ensued. Soldiers fired their automatic weapons, mowing down small groups of the young men. Other students overwhelmed soldiers, killing them with their own weapons. Hand to hand fighting ensued. The National Guard troops from Brooks side of the street began running towards the fighting. Bullets ricocheted everywhere. Several flying past Brooks and hitting objects nearby.

  Out of nowhere the butt from the soldier's M4 rifle landed squarely on Brooks' right shoulder. The force of the gun flung him to the side, almost knocking him to the ground. “Get out of here now!” the soldier yelled before running to join the fight across the street.

  Brooks scrambled away, able to reach a full speed run while looking back from time to time. Bullets whizzed by his head. He prayed to God none would hit him. He finally managed to get around the corner of the nearest building and took cover. He stopped and leaned back against the building to catch his breath. Looking up, he gave a quick thanks. When he was ready he peered out from the corner to see what was going on. The bedlam was over by that point. All he could see through the rain and the darkness was the shadows of the soldiers standing over the dead and the injured. It was time to get as far away as possible. Brooks hurried down the side street, looking over his shoulder from time to time as if expecting Homeland Security troopers to arrest him. He managed to get to the Karma Club about fifteen minutes later, navigating through side streets the entire way.

  Brooks stood in the rain outside the restaurant, shaking and out of breath. He scanned the area carefully, observing the street traffic and pedestrians. Everything seemed normal. No hint of the insanity that had unfolded minutes earlier. He finally calmed down enough to open the door and walk inside. It was still early, the restaurant wasn't crowded yet. It was a seat yourself kind of place. He took the farthest and darkest available booth from the entrance.

  Waiting for someone to serve him, Brooks looked around observing the people inside the restaurant. He watched them eating, talking, drinking. It was surreal. His mind raced with everything that went on.

  A waitress walked up to his booth, “How are you doing tonight? Can I get you something to drink?” She held out a menu.

  For a moment, Brooks continued to stare at the people around him, not acknowledging her existence. Brooks came to. “Oh, I'm sorry.” He took the menu in her outstretched hand. “I, I've just had the worst day. I'll take a Boston winter ale and a shot of Jack Daniels. Thanks.”

  “Coming up,” the woman said with a smile before spinning around and heading for the bar.

  Brooks downed two rounds before he was finally able to make a call on his v-phone. It rang several times times before switching over to video mail. He raised the phone higher to get his face centered in the picture, “Dylan, pick up buddy. Where are you? Something unbelievable just happened. I'm at the Karma Club. Call me as soon as you can. This is really important.”

  No sooner had Brooks put down his phone, Joanne walked into the restaurant and spotted her friend in the far booth. She was dressed in a black leather jacket and black jeans. Her long brown hair tied in a pony tail sticking through the opening of a faded blue Red Sox cap. Joanne was what some might call a hippy chick. She was liberal, artsy, and very intelligent. She was in her early thirties, with a medium build, and very pretty. She didn't seem to have a regular job. Or at least one that any of her friends knew of. Everyone simply assumed she came from money.

  “Hi there Brooksie.”

  Brooks looked up to see Joanne squeezing into the opposite side of the booth. He returned a quick almost imperceptible greeting to her. Joanne settled herself in.

  “Well that had to be the warmest greeting you've.....” She cut herself off in mid sentence seeing his face, “You look white as a sheet. Are you feeling OK?”

  “I'm sorry Joanne. You won't believe what I just saw happen.” He took a couple of swigs off his beer before starting in on the details of the events he witnessed a few minutes earlier. Joanne removed her jacket and settled into her seat while listening to his story.

  Brooks described every detail. Sometimes re-telling a certain aspect of the story a second time to make sure she got it. Joanne listened intently, absorbing what he had to say. When he was finally finished, Joanne responded, “Well I'm glad you're alright. You could have been walking on the other side of the street and who knows
what might have happened!”

  Brooks hadn't thought about that. The idea began to make him feel better. “You're right, I should be glad I didn't get caught in anything.” He began to get the color back into his face.

  Joanne looked around the room then directly at Brooks, “So what do you think is going on?” He shook his head, “I have no idea. Hopefully we'll find out on the news tonight.” Brooks and Joanne had never spoken about the news or politics before. In fact, he never really cared about it all that much, like most people.

  The two friends sat at the table in silence for a few moments while they thought about what to make of it all. Joanne was the first to break the silence. “I've heard people talking about shit going on across the city. You know, like violence breaking out. I haven't heard a lot. Just rumors.”

  Brooks shook his head, acknowledging what she was saying. “Well they're not rumors any more.”

  “You know, let's forget about it for now. Let's enjoy our evening. Besides, I want to talk to you about Stephanie, my new girlfriend. I need your advice.” Brooks perked up, straightening himself in the seat. “Yeah you're right. There's nothing we can do about all that shit. Let's have a good time. So....... what's going on with you and Stephanie?” he said, then took another swig of beer.

  SIX

  At six thirty Dylan finally arrived home from the office. The entire city was locked up in a traffic nightmare during the evening commute. One of those rare events that usually happens once or twice a year when for whatever strange reason the entire traffic system just crashes to a halt. And to make matters worse, there was no wireless communication for the entire time: no v-phone, no network connection.